Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Six

Blake

My knuckles are raw.

After taking care of the crisis at our offices in South Korea, I swung by the gym to train with Gordon. He used to fight professionally, but quit after a head injury—nothing serious, but enough to scare him into early retirement. Since then, he's opened a chain of studios in and around Philadelphia, specializing in mixed martial arts.

My stepdad enrolled me in karate as a kid, but it wasn't until I started practicing Krav Maga that I became a dedicated student. I have a fourth-degree black belt, having dabbled in other styles over the years—boxing, jiu-jitsu, and wrestling. It helps me maintain calm, and lessens the symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Gordon was happy to hear I've decided to unplug during my trip. I'll still be responding to work emails, but I'm going to try my hardest not to spend time on the dark web. And I'm going to familiarize myself with Lucy by speaking to her, not running a background check.

I'm flexing my fingers on my thigh, watching the way the skin on my knuckles begins to pucker, when the door to the town car opens. I glance up, seeing a surprised Lucy waiting on the curb outside Ms. Orlova's office building. Her hair is a bouquet of dancing flames, the wind causing it to batter her face. She furrows her brow at the sight of me waiting in the backseat of the car.

"Were you expecting someone else?" I joke.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, rethinking her words. "I didn't think you'd be picking me up."

The driver takes her two bags—a suitcase and a carry-on—and rounds the vehicle, popping the trunk to deposit them beside mine.

"We're traveling together," I remind her.

"Yes, I just thought I'd be meeting you at the airport."

"It was convenient," I say as she slides onto the leather seat, shutting the door behind her. "I own a building on the block over."

This is true, but I didn't come from work. My home is closer to Philadelphia International, so gathering Lucy was out of my way. Still, I wanted to ride with her. I'm finding I enjoy her company. Her ability to adapt to change—like pretending to be my girlfriend for my family on a moment's notice—is impressive.

"You own the whole building or, like, an office inside of it?" she asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"The whole building."

She briefly wrinkles her nose, but tries to hide it by looking out the window. "Oh. Cool."

"Your face is doing something weird."

"Sorry. It's strange to hear. Most people don't own their cars, much less an entire skyscraper." She laughs, glancing in my direction as the driver pulls into traffic. "In fact, the only thing I outright own is my cat, and even he is missing a leg."

That's the first personal detail she's given me. I can't fight my grin, feeling accomplished that I've gotten her to admit something honest about herself.

"At least there's less opportunity for him to claw the furniture," I point out.

"He more than makes up for it with his three remaining limbs."

We share a smile, falling into companionable silence for a handful of minutes. I gesture toward the cupholder, letting her know there's fresh coffee if she'd like some. She thanks me, but makes no move to grab the beverage. I respond to a few texts from my family, then cycle through the emails that are already piling up. More often than I care to admit, I find my focus drifting toward the woman seated on my right.